


IV

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [5]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Cozy, Domestic, Friends To..., Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why oh why hadn’t he gotten that pain scrip filled when Clara told him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	IV

It isn’t until after an afternoon spent walking back and forth from the crime scene that Paul realises he should have asked Miss Stewart if he could leave his cane in the boot. There are probably a dozen canes in this mansion of a house but he’d be happy if he could just get his hands on a nice sturdy stick.

This landscape is too well groomed for that so he has to settle for leaning back against the bonnet of the car once he reaches the driveway. He had meant to go into the house and find Foyle but his knee is throbbing and he doesn’t have words for the sensations in his lower leg. So he leans back against the bonnet of the car, trying to look comfortable. He plants his right foot as firmly as he can and tests if balancing his left leg on the heel of the prosthetic makes the pain any better. It doesn’t. He buries his hands in the pockets of his coat so he can dig his nails into his palms without anyone seeing.

The minutes go by and the pain doesn’t get any better and why oh why hadn’t he gotten that pain scrip filled when Clara told him to. He grits his teeth, digs his nails further into his palms, and tries to think of other things.

‘Paul?’ 

For a minute, he doesn’t realise someone has spoken to him. Then he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks over to see Foyle standing by the front bumper of the car, head slightly tilted. ‘Yes, sir?’ He tries to lever himself away from the bonnet -- the good second, always ready -- but his knee refuses to bend and he’s forced to swing his leg wide and stiff like a child’s wooden doll.

Foyle’s eyes are far too quick and he’s past Paul in a minute, pulling open the door. ‘Sit down.’

‘Sir, I--’

‘Don’t be a fool, man.’ Foyle gestures to the seat, standing back so Paul can reach the seat by the shortest path. ‘Sit down.’

Paul knows he’s not in a position to argue, so he doesn’t. He knows he’s awkward but he doesn’t meet Foyle’s eye, focusing instead on lowering himself carefully with one hand on the top of the door. The relief is intense, almost another kind of pain. He stretches out his bad leg and lets the weight rest as lightly in his hip as he can.

‘How long has it been like this?’

Paul shrugs, then wishes he hadn’t as the movement jostles his knee. ‘Not long.’

Foyle frowns at him. ‘You need to tell me when it’s getting bad. I can’t have you putting yourself back in hospital again.’

‘Honestly, sir, it wasn’t bad until just a little while ago.’ Paul waves a hand down the long green slope. ‘Walking up and down all those times.’

‘Where’s your cane?’

‘At home. I’m not supposed to be using it anymore.’

‘Ah.’ Foyle drums his fingers on the top of the door. Paul can see him pulling on the inside of his cheek, a habit he’s had as long as Paul’s known him. Where other men might reach for a cigarette, Foyle chews his lip. ‘We should get you a spare. Just in case.’

Paul nods. ‘Yes, sir.’

* * *

It isn’t until an hour after Miss Stewart leaves the station that Paul realises he’s going to have to walk home. 

He looks up from the papers on his desk in dismay as if she might still be lurking in the corner of the office, bright hair unnoticed in the gloom. Of course, she isn’t. 

‘Getting late.’ Foyle sees him move and misinterprets his look, stretching out an arm to flick on the electric lights. They come on bright and a little harsh and Paul squints for a minute, eyes protesting the sudden change.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you need to get home? Wife waiting for you?’

Paul shakes his head and steels himself to keep his mouth from twisting. ‘No, sir.’ 

‘What, no hot dinner?’

He smiles involuntarily at that. Foyle sounds almost shocked. ‘No, sir -- Jane’s away this week.’ Last week, this week, next week, who knows? ‘I’ll just get a bit of cold at the pub.’ He closes the folder in front of him and pushes his chair back, levering himself to his feet. His knee is one dull, sullen throb and, for a moment, he can’t remember how to balance on this _thing_ that’s where his foot should be. It’s like having the world’s worst case of pins and needles except it never, never goes away. He remembers playing with his sister as a child, sitting on their hands or pulling a bit of cloth or a shoelace close around a toe or a fingertip to cut off circulation and feel the strange pricking sensation. He can’t imagine why on earth he ever thought it was fun.

‘It’s been too long a day to have cold at the pub.’ Foyle stands up, too, briskly shoving in a desk drawer and stepping towards the coat rack. ‘Come with me. I can do something better than that.’

‘You cook, sir?’ He doesn’t know if he’s laughing or not.

Foyle pulls on his coat and, turning, holds Paul’s out to him. ‘Believe it or not, sergeant, I have successfully looked after myself for a number of years now.’

* * *

The walk is painful. His leg is stiff and sulky and the pub looks almost unbelievably enticing only a street and a half away from his home. But Foyle paces steadily on, waiting at the high-curbed corners to make sure Paul can step down firmly, but without stopping his flow of talk about a planned summer excursion to a river in Wales. 

And, really, it’s the least Paul can do to keep the man company over a dinner. His leg isn’t incapacitating and he surely owes Foyle a little evening chat if that’s what the man wants. He knows how lonely Foyle’s been since young Andrew left -- there are times when Paul would really like to give that boy an earful about not spending more time at home, but that’s between father and son and he’s seen far too many domestics to stick his neck out. 

Foyle leaves him on the doorstep long enough to go in and turn on the hallway lights, then holds the door wide for him so he can swing his stiff leg up over the lintel. 

‘Thank you.’ He’s aware of Foyle’s gaze on his face, trying to read him, and tries to make himself transparent. It’s foolish for the two of them to dance around each other pretending that he just sat too long or that his foot went to sleep -- he’s injured, he’s disabled, he’s _maimed,_ for Christ’s sake; they can’t pretend that isn’t the case. 

Foyle’s eyes are dark when Paul finally musters up the courage to meet them and there’s the faint wrinkle between his brows that means he’s thinking something through but not quite ready to talk about it yet. After a moment or two, though, his eyes clear and he waves a hand at the door just behind him. ‘Sitting room’s through there--’ Foyle plucks at the sleeve of his coat. ‘Let me take this.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Paul slips his arms out of the coat, hands over his hat, too, which Foyle takes with a nod. 

‘Poke up the fire, will you? I’ll see about some food.’ Foyle hangs their coats on the pegs opposite the sitting room door and then disappears down the hallway, vanishing behind a swinging door.

The sitting room is dark and Paul fumbles for a minute before he finds the switch on the wall. He’s been in Foyle’s house before, of course, but not for many months; it seems as though very little has changed. The three armchairs are still in the same arrangement in front of the fireplace and around a low table. There’s still a bookcase against the wall next to him and under the light switch. The houseplants still look faintly dusty. 

The blackout curtains are new and he gives them a cursory once-over out of professional reflex but, naturally, they’re correctly arranged and he’d be surprised if so much as a pencil of light is reaching the pavement. Still, he turns the overhead light off and switches on a small table lamp instead. 

The room is a bit cold but the fireplace is low and wide and he’s not entirely sure if he gets down there he’ll be able to get back up. He eyes the poker and tries to figure out if he could lever himself back up using that -- or perhaps just nudge the embers using the tip without bending down at all.

Then, before he can choose a strategy, a connecting door swings open and Foyle is back, carrying a tray. ‘Sit down, Paul -- don’t bother about the fire. I’ll get it.’

That settles it. Paul grabs the poker with one hand and the mantel with the other and jabs at the embers. The half-burned log falls apart into cinders and dust but there’s a heart of bright ember and he knocks shards of wood over it. It’s awkward, he won’t deny that, but he can balance himself pretty well with one hand on the mantelpiece and his good leg swung out like a tripod. When the splinters of wood are smoldering and little threads of flame leaping up, he knocks the shell of the log back over the little fire and drops the poker back into place. 

He looks up and Foyle is watching him, one corner of his mouth quirked back in a way that usually means he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Should I bother saying the chair behind you is the more comfortable?’

‘Then I should leave it for you, sir,’ Paul counters, swinging himself across the hearth space using the mantelpiece and dropping into the other armchair. ‘Age before beauty, you know.’ He has no idea where that came from and, for a split second, he stares up at Foyle in horror -- but Foyle’s lips are twitching and he laughs before he sets down the tray.

‘Working with you was never dull, Paul. Drink?’

**Author's Note:**

> I do apologize for my inability to decide what order the sections go in. It has a distinct order in my notes and the working documents but figuring out how to make that order map into AO3's metadata is another job entirely.


End file.
